Infinitely Losing My Edge
Yeah, I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
The kids are coming up from behind.
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge to the kids from Tanzania and from Tehran.
But I was there.
I was there in 1983.
I was there at the first Bronski Beat show in Brixton.
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge to the kids whose footsteps I hear when they get on the decks.
I'm losing my edge to the internet seekers who can tell me every member of every good group from 1962 to 1973.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Woodstock and Madrid.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Bologna kids in little jackets and borrowed nostalgia for the unremembered nineties.
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
I can hear the footsteps every night on the decks.
But I was there.
I was there in 1975 at the first Throbbing Gristle practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the guitar sounds with much patience.
I was there when Captain Beefheart started up his first band.
I told him, "Don't do it that way. You'll never make a dime."
I was there.
I was the first guy playing Jesper Dahlback to the grime kids.
I played it at the Hacienda.
Everybody thought I was crazy.
We all know.
I was there.
I was there.
I've never been wrong.
But I'm losing my edge to better-looking people with better ideas and more talent.
And they're actually really, really nice.
I'm losing my edge.
I heard you have a compilation of every good song ever done by anybody.
Every great song by Minny Pops. All the underground hits.
All The Golliwogs tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Whodini record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal techno hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a synthesizer and a clarinet and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Nick Fraelich record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your chamberlin and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a chamberlin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds,
Mr. Review,
John Lydon,
the Soft Cell,
Roxette,
De La Soul & Jungle Brothers,
Gang Starr,
Agent Orange,
The Misunderstood,
Barbara Tucker,
Sex Pistols,
Black Bananas,
The Pop Group,
Shuggie Otis,
Ituana,
The Peanut Butter Conspiracy,
The Busters,
The Beau Brummels,
Byron Stingily,
John Foxx,
Charles Mingus,
Angry Samoans,
Joyce Sims,
The Detroit Cobras,
Jawbox,
Lee Hazlewood,
Throbbing Gristle,
Dave Gahan,
Rotary Connection,
Arcadia,
Susan Cadogan,
Shoche,
Justin Hinds & The Dominoes,
B.T. Express,
Henry Cow,
The Techniques,
Dark Day,
Laurel Aitken,
Inner City,
Piero Umiliani,
The Tremeloes,
Dead Boys,
Mo-Dettes,
Brick,
Warsaw,
Bill Wells,
Johnny Clarke,
Kauko Röyhkä ja Narttu,
Lalo Schifrin,
Cabaret Voltaire,
Ronan,
Con Funk Shun,
These Immortal Souls,
Stiv Bators,
The Smoke,
Faraquet,
The Raincoats,
Boz Scaggs,
Au Pairs, Au Pairs, Au Pairs, Au Pairs.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.